Collective
by BlotOfInkOnFinger
Summary: Hermione Granger vows that this is not a love story. Usually i'd have something to say to that, but lets do it her way this time. Dramionie.
1. Chapter 1

**Collective**

**A/N: I wrote this chapter freehand, in a notebook purchased on a complete whim at a drugstore across the street from a shopping mall my mother and sister had been vacating since the early morning we'd been there. Who knows where this is going to go? I don't. Stick with me if you like it. I might just continue with something better than this.**

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Love is a feeling not meant to be put on paper. It's a clandestine reality, to remain unique and hidden. Love is a pretension i've grown to despise.

My name is Hermione Granger, and I am a writer. When I was little, my response to the question was "to feel and to write. To report." But I did the exact opposite. I imagined and created a beautiful piece of art; A painting, thought up and produced. Writing is not like painting.

Painting can be a production of your feelings, it can. But most of the time, it's the imagination making the brush move.

I took cliche's and made them better. I was satisfied, without realizing that they were, nonetheless,  
still someone else's stories. Not mine.

So I grew up and vowed to never write what I read, never to write what I thought, but only to recount the tales that I knew.

I have no idea what it feels like to love someone.

So this is not going to be a love story. Unless I actually do bumb into Him in the middle of a busy street, only to be trapped within the pools of color that would be His eyes...I promise that this won't be that unless that actually happens.

Since that never happens anyway,

lets establish

that

this

is not a love story.

-Hermione Granger.


	2. Chapter 2

When Harry and Sally meet during a New York car-ride home, a chain of events was being formed: Bumping into him, bumping into her, while looking for the exact thing he could offer her, and she could offer him. Indefinitely, they feel a "ting-ting" feeling and later, a friendship blooms which leads to a confrontation: will sex ruin this relationship?

Oh, what a story, what a love. I wish it could've been me. Maybe if I was really really lucky, I would have been Renee Zellwger thinking this in her cute little cubicle, mulling numbers over with mind blowing fantasies about her good looking boss. But no, I don't have a boring desk job, I'm extraordinary. I am a witch.

(Heard this a millions times, haven't you?)

(No really, I'm sure there are a thousand little fan-fictiony stories spilling over the internet about my best friend, Harry Potter and almost-sister Ginny Weasley.)

But i'm not exactly that kind of an interesting 'character'. I have bushy brown hair and hazel eyes, I have clear skin but who wants to read about that when there are 'shapely cheekbones' and 'brazilian, bronze skin tones' to make you wild with envy? I wish I could have something entertaining to supply about my life, but I actually don't. Maybe I could make you laugh by telling you exaggerated accounts of my potbellied boss, or the aging hunk that lives across my apartment, (warped up little cliches like those, you know) or maybe I can do 'Not Another Bridget Jones Story' but i'm telling you right now that I can't, so don't start thinking anything just because i'm British and am bound to be very humorous or...or frankly, some kind of Kate Winslet from The Holiday.

God, I wish I was. I wish I could pretend to be all 'normal' and then kick off about my crazy love story.. but _no_, this is not a love story, because life is never a 'love story', it's so much more. I could go into a Tolstoy novel-and-sequel about it, filling the pages with my thoughts. I should try that...

What was I saying?

Yes, I am a witch. My world doesn't have e-mail and Radiohead, it's more full of ridiculous-sounding things like...Floo Powder, or the Weird Sisters (although who even listens to those sell-outs anymore, anyway?) I work as a Healer (far from Greys Anatomy, I tell you...or House, for that matter) at St. Mungo's hospital. Yes, I work at a place called 'St. MUNGOS'. I'm busy most of the time, well, all the time, but today and hopefully the rest of the week, i'm off-duty.

It's a _complete_ miracle, considering i'm one of those healers who are too important and high-up to get holidays for even Christmas, or Construction Day or something stupid like that. I won't get into why, because i'm far too impatient to get into old Ministries of Magic and constitutions numbered 4 and what not...

Anyhow, a long chain of events has lead me to sit up here on a hill in a park, in a bustling city with the wind trying to blow away my scarf every second, trying to read - no, not Jane Austen - but an interesting compilation of short stories by J.D Salinger. I know I know, an intelligent person like me shouldn't get trapped into the sad Catcher Cult, but he wrote more than just whining teenagers, and that is why Nine Stories is grasped between my fingers in an effort for it not blow away. There goes my scarf.

-Hermione Granger

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Review, please! My last review told my it reminded her/him of 500 Days of Summer, never seen it so I wouldn't know. (Seriously. Well I did try streaming it that time, but I can't get into Vureel ruining my life...) But that's constructive criticism right there. Oh, by the way, it was Pet a Freshman Day yesterday. Just saying.


	3. Chapter 3

There are mulitple things a young adult, with almost a million books and movies written and made for her, can do without getting bored. Romantic comedies, sci-fis, Gossip Girl box sets (when did that little pouting boy ever become sexy to me?) or Cougar Town, for that matter...

But I, Hermione Granger, a very intelligent witch, blessed with magic, money and a brain, can not find a past-time. Usually, a woman has her girlfriends to spend a weekend with. I have my parents, my friends (single AND married) to amuse me, yet I find myself in one of those lame-Heather Lockelear-coming-of-age movies? Maybe because I'd rather sit on this couch watching East Enders than actually do something. I _am_ a failure.

A knock on my door snapped me out of a painful argument of whether I should go clean the bathroom or make myself a hot cocoa. "Coming!" I called/grumbled. My gray PJs were depressing, I noticed on my way to the door, maybe next time I could ask Mum for something less miserable.

"Oh, George!" I breathed, smiling at the tall redheaded young man standing at my door with one of his unmistakble impish grins.

"'Mione!" I remembered painfully how there used to be an echo to that, until last November when Fred Weasley passed away quietly from a sudden head injury in a vacated apartment building, with all inhabitants out for the Minister of Magic's election parade in Diagon Alley.

"Come in, come in!" I hurried to give him way, wishing I'd worn something a tad more flattering than my favorite muggle FBI sweatshirt and spandexy pants. Well, it's only George.

"Ah, my little drop of sunshine!" he chuckled, surveying my gloomily shady apartment and drawn blinds.

I laughed, surprised at how croaky and strange it sounded to me. It had been a while since I'd actually had one of those. "Coffee, tea, beer?" I called from the kitchen.

George walked up behind me and laid a hand on my shoulder. "Oh don't bother, Hermione, I'm here only for a bit."

"Oh." I immediately regretted that since the sinking feeling of being left alone was transparent in my voice even to the deaf and mute. How pathetic.

I shut the cupboard and turned around to face him. "What're the plans?" I asked casually.

His grin loomed above me from his great height. "We're going to Hogsmeade! You and me and everyone else I think we ever knew!"

"What?" I gasped.

"Oh yes. I know you don't have any 'life or death situations' at the hospital, so don't even try to get out of this one!."

I laughed weakly."Everyone will be there? What do you mean, everyone?"

"Everything and everyone, baby. The whole lot of them. Hogwarts...after Hogwarts...before Hogwarts. It's a huge reunion thing that the Diggory's are doing."

"Oh, wow. How...lovely." I grimaced. George laughed and put an arm around my shoulders. "Come on," he said softly. "I know how you've been BARELY pulling through things around here, alone." He waved a free arm around the apartment.

"What's that supposed to mean? I"m great! Absolutely great. Feeling good and healthy, and...and.." I sighed and rubbed an eyebrow. "Fine, I suppose I haven't got much else to do anyway."

"Great! I know Ron, Bill, Charlie, Fleur and my parents have been missing you. This'll be a _great _party. You have to have fun, 'Mione. I mean it."

"Sure, George." I said, feigning enthusiasm.

Joy.

-Hermione Granger

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_Review! Come on, you can do it! You can't save Africa, but...but you can make a poor soul like me...absolutely thriving! =D_


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